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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312581">Not The First Time</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writings_of_a_Hufflepuff/pseuds/Writings_of_a_Hufflepuff'>Writings_of_a_Hufflepuff</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gotta Show a Little Backbone ~ Gilbert Wood [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, F/M, First Aid, Fist Fights, Hurt/Comfort, patching someone up</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:54:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312581</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writings_of_a_Hufflepuff/pseuds/Writings_of_a_Hufflepuff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fandom: N/A: Original Character Fiction</p>
<p>Pairing: Gilbert Wood x Female Identifying Reader</p>
<p>Warning: Blood, the aftermath of a fight, angsty</p>
<p>Summary: Gilbert turns up at your door covered in blood. Again.</p>
<p>Notes: Gilbert Wood is my own original character, face claim is Benjamin Wadsworth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Male Character/Reader, gilbert wood/reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gotta Show a Little Backbone ~ Gilbert Wood [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Not The First Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
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<p>“Oh Gil…” You sigh out, taking in the blood pouring from his bruised nose, the cuts across his face, the start of the darkening skin of bruises over his cheeks and jaw. His curly dark hair is matted with blood, one dark brown eye not quite as open as the other as it begins to swell. He looks a mess. You feel your heart clench at the sight of him on your door step. He’s missing a shoe and his white shirt is stained with his own blood. </p>
<p>This isn’t the first time that Gilbert has turned up at your house like this. It is an unfortunately common occurrence. Gilbert Wood is a lovable dumbass, but the man doesn’t know when to leave a fight. He’s so good, in so many ways, a real protector type…but that’s what gets him in trouble. He’s not a fighter. He’s never won a fight. He always loses and when he does, he always comes crawling to your house, covered in his own blood and with a good reason as to why.  </p>
<p>It’s always a good reason. You can’t deny that he stands up for others. That he is selfless in that regard…but it doesn’t stop it upsetting you or hurting you to see him like this. He’s not just your best friend. You love him, for reasons that are so plainly obvious whenever anyone watches him with you. Reasons that come down to the kind gentleness with which he treats you, to his sweet temperament and protective disposition. </p>
<p>It isn’t a joy to see him fight, or see the aftermath. It’s not like the movies, where the girl sighs out exaggeratedly about how attractive the hero is in a fight. There is not a sight you’ve seen more horrific than a bloody and beaten Gilbert…especially the next day when his face swells, the bruises are a deeper colour, and the pain so very evident.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry…” He always apologises because he knows it hurts you to see him like this and every time you say; “Don’t be,” because you don’t want him to stop being him. </p>
<p>You can’t think of a world in which Gilbert isn’t the protector of any random person or ideal. He is so good, but so spontaneous. Sometimes that’s a lovely thing because he comes round and tells you you’re going for a drive or that he has a plan…but most of the time you wonder what bone will be broken next…and if maybe next time he won’t be okay. Despite that massive fear, you wouldn’t ask him to stop because you know that it would go against his every instinct not to step in, stand up. You just wished that he’d win sometime.</p>
<p>You take him by the hand, his knuckles are scrapped and turning blue and you’re careful not to move his fingers too much as you lead him inside your house. Your living room is full of warm, dim light, it is mid-winter after all. The fire is crackling, after Gilbert helped you get it up and running last year, fairy lights are on, plush cushions rest behind Gil as you sit him on your sofa. He looks so out of place in your cosy little home, with his bloody shirt, missing shoe, and pained smile. Even in pain he’s always smiling at you. </p>
<p>“I’ll just get the Gilbox,” You try to joke, but it lands flat for the both of you. The Gilbox was the first aid box specifically with Gilbert’s name on it…in purple sharpie…its not that funny though. Its actually sad. It’s sad that he needs his own box. It’s sad that you always find yourself fixing him back up.</p>
<p>You find the little blue box that you’d stuffed medical supplies into, in the back of your kitchen drawer. It’s covered in stickers that Gilbert put on there, and his name in big purple letters. The box’s contents is relatively basic, although you regularly keep up to date with first aid training at work for this very reason. It’s the usual items; antiseptic, bandages, dressings, steristrips strips, tweezers, even some bug repellent. </p>
<p>Gil had yet to turn up with an injury you couldn’t deal with…but you were always scared that there’d be something you’d miss or that one day he’d turn up and you couldn’t fix it. You tried not to think about that too much, though.</p>
<p>You grab a bowl of warm water and a cloth as well. Knowing he needed cleaning up as well. It’s scary just how much blood he’s covered in. </p>
<p>“Is your nose broken?” He’s gingerly touching it when you return, and he winces after a particularly harsh press. </p>
<p>“Don’t think so…bloody lucky though.” </p>
<p>“Who’d you pick a fight with? King Kong?” You ask, putting your things on your coffee table. You reach the cloth into the bowl and squeeze the excess water away. </p>
<p>You place a hand under his chin, carefully tilting his face up, as you lean over with the cloth. You’re even more careful as you wipe away the dried, and wet, blood from his face. His olive skin looks pale as you wipe away the blood, but his face is warm. The warmth reassures you that its not as bad as it looks.  </p>
<p>“Pretty much. Big. Scary. Definitely a misogynistic dickwad.” You already know that he was defending some girl. He’s like that. Always the saviour and you love him for it. You love that he doesn’t just stand by and let other men do what they want. That he protects people…even if he can barely protect himself. He’s got a hero complex and while it worries you, it also is one of the things that made you fall in love…because he is so <em>so </em>good. He’s a better person than you could ever be. Sometimes you’d wish he’d be a little selfish. Just once.</p>
<p>“Hitting on some poor girl?” </p>
<p>“She was like 12.” You raise an eyebrow at him, “Okay, 18…but still. She reminded me of Rosie.” His little sister. Just turned 18, while he’s barely 22. Part of you is glad he was out at the One Eyed Dog that night. That he was there to look out for a girl who was barely out of her teens. </p>
<p>He winces and hisses as you rub against a particularly sensitive cut on his cheek. You tut and move his face back towards yours, as he moves away out of instinct. “You really should be more careful, Gil…one of these days…”</p>
<p>“One of these days I’ll win.” He smiles at cheekily, teeth showing, eyebrows lifting. But, his eyes don’t twinkle. It’s not a true smile. Not a deep smile. He knows he won’t. He knows he’ll never win…not without a few lessons. Gil isn’t a small guy, he’s over 6ft tall and not particularly lanky, but he’s not a gym buff. He doesn’t do weights or go boxing. He’s not a fighter. He’s just a protector, and surprisingly that makes a big difference. </p>
<p>“One of these days you’ll end up at St James’ and I won’t be able to help…I couldn’t stand not being able to help.” You can feel the tears starting to form at the thought of it. Of him lying in a hospital bed. You helpless. Unable to do a thing. </p>
<p>“Hey,” He takes your wrists in his hands, pulling them down to rest between you two, pulling you closer in the process. You slip between his legs. The closeness is not unusual, “I know I worry you…but i’ll be okay. I promise.”</p>
<p>“You can’t promise that…”</p>
<p>“I can. I promise i’ll be okay. I’m not looking to die any time soon, love.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, gasping in pain as he leans forward. You pull back and lift his shirt despite protests. </p>
<p>His ribs are purple…but there’s not much you or anyone else can do about that. So you drop his shirt and shake your head at him for not telling you, before reaching for the antiseptic cream. </p>
<p>“Your mum isn’t going to be happy when she sees you on Sunday for dinner.” If possible Gil’s face pales even further at the realisation that his mother might go on one of her notorious lectures during Sunday Roast. </p>
<p>“She might kill me this time.” You’re careful as you cover each cut with cream, holding his chin in your other hand. </p>
<p>“You might not get a yorkshire.” You tease, trying to lighten the mood, as you cover a particularly upset cut with steristrips. Gilbert’s mother was a traditional English woman. Sunday’s were for roast dinners and her yorkshire puds always rose well..and like most English mother’s she’d learnt to withhold them, along with roast potatoes as punishment. She loved Gilbert and you knew that in many ways she was proud of his desire to help people, but no mother wanted to see her son bloody and beaten repeatedly. </p>
<p>“But they’re my favourite…” </p>
<p>“Maybe you’ll learn to be more careful this time,” You smiled, “or not.” </p>
<p>You finished caring for the last of his cuts before pulling back and leaving the space between his legs, turning to return everything to its place in the Gilbox. You feel him stand, hovering over you as he approaches. “Thanks for always patching me up, <em>cariño</em>.” </p>
<p>You turn to face him, rolling your eyes at the forced Spanish. His father might be fluent but Gilbert was anything but, still he liked to drop phrases and words in…especially to tease you. </p>
<p>The two of you fall into a peaceful silence, just staring at each other and the ground intermittently, before you gain the courage to speak.</p>
<p>“Be more careful. Just…I can’t…I can’t ask you not to step in. But, just…don’t get hurt too bad, okay?” Your wrap your arms around yourself and look up at him. He is who he is and he would never stop standing up and stepping in…but it would be nice if he got into less punch ups.</p>
<p>“I already said, i’ll be fine. Why’re you so worried?” He frowns, brown eyes flickering with concern. </p>
<p>You take a deep breath, steeling your resolve, “Because I love you and I hate to see you hurt.”</p>
<p>“I love you too, you’re my best friend,” he smiles that dumb little smile at you. The one where his teeth show and his eyes crinkle. The one that makes your chest hurt. But, he is dumb sometimes…sometimes he’s so smart and then times like this…</p>
<p>“No. Gil. I love you like the Highwayman loved Bess.” So you explain in the only way a poetry fan, and wannabe writer would understand. Alfred Noyes. He couldn’t possibly misinterpret that as platonic. </p>
<p>“Oh…really?” He looks confused and it doesn’t make you feel relieved or any better. If anything it fills you with disappointment that he seems confused by the prospect of you liking him. </p>
<p>His confusion turns to that smile again though and it takes you a little by surprise, because its not quite the same smile. It’s softer, less goofy, more tender. His bruised knuckles fold over your own as he takes your hands in his and pulls you closer, “That’s good then because I love you like Gilbert Blythe loves Anne Shirley.” </p>
<p>“Yeah?” </p>
<p>“Yeah.” You stop a little sigh from leaving your throat at the utter affection and relief you hold in that moment for the man in front of you. You’re not quite sure where this is leading, but you know where you want it go and for now you’re content with the knowledge that Gilbert Alejandro Wood loves you.</p>
<p>“Do you want to stay? We can watch a movie…or stupid TV?” </p>
<p>You’re answered by Gilbert flopping down onto your sofa and pulling you down with him, settling you so your cheek rests against his shoulder and his arm wraps around you. You could get used to this…even if it meant dealing with the blood first. </p>
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